


Ain't no big thing

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> For the 2012 Life on Mars Ficathon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't no big thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milly_gal](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=milly_gal).



  
"Guest lecturer!"  Ellen laughs, a rude, braying laugh, staring at the bulky figure across the bar with scarcely hidden dismay.  "That's DCI Hunt, the terror of Manchester!"

The man leans over his pint at the end of the bar, huge and broad-shouldered and tousled just a bit, up a couple of pints, no doubt, on the minor-league punters around him.  Some kind of figure out of legend.  Some kind of ubermensch of the Manchester Constabulary.  He's heavy, yeah, but not fat, rugged but not necessarily handsome, physical but not fit.  Annie can't put her finger on his appeal, yet she can hardly deny it now that she's confessed it out loud.

"He was our guest lecturer for the day," Annie repeats with a sigh.  She should have known better than to confide in Ellen McIntosh.  Loyal, good for an honest opinion, but not quiet and not discreet.  Hunt might have overheard her first outburst, although he hadn't so much as glanced in their direction, but Annie's still watching him for any sign of a response.

"You fancy him?  Cartwright, he's twice your age!"

"Hush!  He'll hear you!"

"Better now than later, darling.  You really don't need to get involved with that--not that it's likely to happen, mind you; the tale is that he's as married as they come, and when he wants a little something on the side he goes to the professionals.  And don't go blabbing that around!"

Annie bites her tongue.  She can feel the burn rising to her face, even though no one else can hear.  What a mistake it had been to say anything to Ellen.  Who hadn't been there in the classroom, she reminds herself, observing his almost visible aura of authority and the majesty with which he summed up the real-life cases they were to learn from, his sharp, penetrating green glare when questioned by any of the male members of the class of police cadets.  Oh, lord.  She's well and truly lost, isn't she?  Yes. 

"All right," she murmurs, trying to get Ellen to tone it down.  "Another pint?"  It probably isn't a good idea; adding alcohol to the volatile Cadet McIntosh had already proved dangerous.  And yet it's a distraction from the topic.

"Yeah.  One more and then I'm off.  Meeting young Peter Gentian later.  And you--"

"Buy your beers, ladies?"  A wall of camelhair coat appears next to them.

"Uh, well..."

"Right kind of you to ask, sir!" chirps Ellen with a wink at Annie.

"Two bitters," DCI Hunt said to the bartender.  "And a whisky."  With that he tosses off the last of his own pint and sets it down on the bar between the two of them, exuding an air of satisfaction and amusement.  "So, my young cadets.  What persuaded two lovely girls like you to want to play police officer?"

Annie feels her blush deepen.  It's too hard, to address him directly.  Too much to ask, to keep it together under the circumstances.

Ellen has no such problem.  "No better place to meet lots of handsome, fit young men!"

"But you don't have to become one to catch one, do you?  Meet 'em down the pub, or at the dances, or at the films."

"Aye, but what better way to catch their eye than to be in the same building all day long!"

Hunt tips his head to her, eyes gleaming, and takes a sip--really more of a gulp--from his whisky.  "Point taken."

Ellen simpers, in the most brazen, forward way possible and Annie dies a little death inside.

 Annie has a thing for authority figures.  She's known that about herself for ages.  The allure of the teachers, the knowledgeable ones, the firm and wise voice of reason, the delights of learning under a calm and guiding hand.  Hero worship.  And Gene Hunt fits the bill, oh, does he ever.  But it's clear to her, even after these few moments in his company, that she is not his type, that the things they say about him--the things Ellen just said about him--are true.

Annie sips from her pint, wonders how soon she can leave.  Fifteen minutes later Ellen has a hand on Hunt's sleeve, and he has his on her arse.  Annie sets down her glass and picks up her jacket.  "I'll see you on Monday," she says to Ellen's back.  There's no response.  As she walks out into the late afternoon sunshine she's not sure why she's so frustrated.

 

***

The graduation ceremony is a whirl of nerves, waiting and then marching and then waiting again, and always Annie's scanning the crowd, looking for her parents and her brothers.  When her name is called she marches across the stage, takes her certificate and shakes the hand of the Chief Superintendent of the Training Academy, feeling strong and proud.  This is the grand achievement of a dream, and at the moment there's nothing better.

Afterwards she exchanges congratulations with loads of other students until she finds her family, and is engulfed by their joyful reaction.  The chatter and congratulations go on and on.  She's getting weary--the uniform feels stiff, the hat is making her head ache, and her feet are burning from standing for so long--when a voice speaks from behind her.

"Congratulations, WPC Cartwright."  His voice is both smooth and gravelly, she decides in the moment before she turns to face him.  Odd how the tones of that voice sent a shiver of pleased anticipation down her spine.  He hadn't done anything to make her pleased, after all, with his marked disinterest, and yet she can't resist him.

"Hunt," she says, and bites her tongue.

"That's DCI to you, young Police Constable."

She blushes furiously.  "Thank you."

"You'll be looking for a job then."

"Yes, sir."

"So formal!  All my subordinates call me guv."  He looks damnably amused.  She wants to hate him for it, but can't resist the quirk of his smile.

"Guv, I am indeed looking for a job."

"Manchester suit you?"

She raises an eyebrow.  "It's where I'd like to stay.  Are you..."  She hesitates.  He's so direct, yet so oblique, as if there are social niceties she's not aware of.

"I think I'd like to keep you where I can keep an eye on you." 

Her face burns again, but she's burning inside as well, with glee and excitement.

***

At the end of Annie's first day of real work (the first day on the job being taken up with paperwork, a tour of the building and a painstaking lecture from WPC Dobbs on procedures and how not to encourage the drunken louts that pass as police officers around here, "Yes, thank you D.S. Carling, I'm talking about you,") she's aching and bone tired.  Tired in more than body.  It's not that she had illusions so much as... hopes?  Desires?  For the kind of work she might manage to do, given a willing mind and body and the training she's had, and the amount of time she's spent pondering her place in the organization.  Hopes that she might be treated as an equal on some level--any level.

She's not an idiot.  She doesn't appreciate being treated as one.

"All right?" asks the aforementioned Phyllis Dobbs briskly, patting her shoulder.

"Yes, sorry, just woolgathering."

"The day's at an end, Cartwright.  Get yourself home and have a nice cuppa, put your feet up.  You deserve it."

It had been an exceptionally long day, as well.  Many hours on her feet, and an extra pile of awkward paperwork at the end of it.  Most of the men had been off to the pub, and the square of sky she could glimpse through the window at the end of the hall had gone dark.

"Oh."  Annie struggles to put a smile on her face.  "I will.  I mean..."  Her own confusion and the softening of Phyllis' expression make her bold enough to ask.  "Why do men have to be so... mannish?"

It's the only way she can think to put all the varieties of behaviour she's witnessed this day, from the petty behaviors of passersby to the rude comments from her fellow PCs, the wolf whistles and the open admiration of her arse.  And then there were the biting comments about the best use for WPCs, the invitations, the suggestions, the hands on her arm and elsewhere that she had to fling off with ever more force.  She's not sure which was worse; the big fellow she tried to arrest for public indecency, or the condescension from the Constable she was working with when the beefy, stinking man backed her up against a wall and had a feel.  Tears prickle behind her eyes and she stubbornly keeps them open, hoping Phyllis won't notice.

"Ah, lord knows.  All we can do is watch out for each other.  Right, WPC Cartwright?"

Annie takes a deep breath.  "Right, WPC Dobbs."

It doesn't take much to put a little steel back in her spine.  Never has; resiliency is a common trait on the farm, and she'd always had the example of her father before her, always a cheerful smile and a positive outlook on life, even in the hardest of times.  Despite all the loutish men in the world, there are better specimens.  Her father and brothers.  A few of the boys from uni; Neil was nice, and Ben.  And then there's always--

"Cartwright," Hunt's voice booms.  "You're not walking home alone on a night like this."

She startles, then turns slowly to face him.  "Like what, sir?"

"Guv," he corrects her.  "Or DCI Hunt, if you must.  But it's a dark night and I'll give you a ride."

"You don't have to--" she begins, but he's already walking toward the door, shrugging on his coat.  Annie shoots a helpless look at Phyllis, but she just tips her head at Gene's retreating back and makes a "follow him" motion of her eyebrows.  How Annie has come to read Phyllis' facial features so well after just a few days is intriguing to her, but she nods a thanks and marches out, following Hunt to the metallic brown Cortina parked at the kerb.

He opens the passenger side door for her.

"Thank you, guv."  She settles into his car and it's almost as intimate as wearing his coat--or being in his bed.  The thing reeks of Gene Hunt; an odor so complex she has trouble identifying the individual notes.

"Where to?"

"Bridgewater."

He pulls away and into traffic, and it's as though he's one with the machine.  Or maybe it's all in her mind; maybe she's never watched someone drive with as much interest as she brings to this, to observing his profile and the clench of his knuckles against the steering wheel.  Maybe it's just because she's fascinated by every little thing about him.

***

The music's loud, thumping, making her bones vibrate, beating in her veins like a second heart.  Annie's wise enough to know she's tipsy.  Wise enough to remove Ray Carling's rude hand from her hip, with a sharp glance and a firm "no" she's not even sure he heard over the grind of Roxy Music.  Got the message, though, didn't he?

Still.  There's Hunt, wildly improbable on the dance floor, but also exuding masculinity as if it was a cologne.  A fag and a beer bottle in his hand, and he's making his way toward her, surprisingly lithe motions of leg and shoulder as he shifts people aside.  Is he really coming her way?  She looks behind her; just a couple dancing with each other, oblivious, and a handful of strangers behind them.

She turns back and he's right there, swaying suggestively.

"Oi!  Cartwright!  Buy you a drink?"

"Don't need another, guv!  I'll be going home in a few minutes!"

She'd been excited about the night out dancing.  Still was enjoying it, truth be told, but she was wise enough to end the evening still fully in control of her faculties.  No one needs to remind her to be careful; she learned that lesson well from her five brothers, who understood how men's minds worked.  "Don't ever lead a man on, Annie my girl, unless he's promised you a ring."  She had laughed.  "I mean it.  Men are bastards; they'll take anything they can get.  Anything."

She'd grown up enough to know it was true.  Men would go for a quick grope because they could get away with it.  If you let them, they'd go for more the next time.  But what did she think Gene Hunt wanted, on this fine evening?  Time spent chatting, or dancing, with her?  He's still swaying to the music, eyeing her speculatively.

Not yet, you're not," he says, with that hint of a smile.  The song ends and another starts, a slower beat, and he reaches out a hand to take hers.  She responds without thinking, his hand warm and dry around her own.  "You're dancing with me, first." 

It's the kind of song that allows him to crush her up against his chest, rock her gently from side to side and then step back to arm's length, still holding her hand, to shuffle a few steps left and right.  She follows his lead, trying to catch his expression in the awkward light of the dancehall.  Is he playing with her?  Is this some sort of game?

"What kind of dance is this?" she asks after a moment, trying to match his movements.

"Dunno.  It's the only one I know."  He grins, then pulls her up against him again and murmurs in her ear, "It's just a dance, woman.  You don't need to look like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to deflower you."

She jerks back against his grip, and after a moment he releases her.  She gives him another sort of look, she can feel the storm clouds on her own brow.  Blimey.  The shifting currents of the dancers come between them at that moment in some sort of divine intervention, and when a stranger's broad back moves out of the way, Gene's gone.  She sees him ten minutes later, fumbling with some drunken tart in the back hallway.

Later, when she's home in her own bed, she's angry.  At first she thinks she doesn't know why.  Then she thinks it doesn't matter.  Then she thinks, but he disappointed me so much.  In the end she decides that it's ironic that the things that frustrate her so much about Gene are the things that are the most true about him.  That he has a reputation and lives up to it.  That he actually is a drunken lout.  She rolls over and tries not to think about the feel of his belly against hers, the way her hand felt in his.  She's so angry that her eyes sting with tears.

 

***

Annie sobs in the Collators Den.  Safer than the loo, quieter.  She can cry without noise when she wants to, when she cares to.

Jesus.  As if anyone'd notice.  Her feelings or lack thereof are neither speculated about nor commented on by the other WPCs.  Christ on a bike.  She scrubs angrily at her face with her handkerchief.  So angry, so frustrated.

It's not as if he owes her anything.  Not as if he ever promised anything.  Not as if she has any hold on him at all, but--she wipes her running nose again, sighs and rests her forehead against the metal shelving.  It's just that a week went by, and he's the same man, and there continue to be those moments when she feels like his attention matters.  It matters too much.  It matters so much that she walks down the hall outside of CID at a particular time of day because he was once there at exactly that time.  She watches what he eats in the cantina.  And then she takes herself by the scruff of the neck and shakes herself, because she knows better.  She knows she's got a life, and that it doesn't revolve around her DCI.  But--

Biology.  And psychology, the way she reacts to strong male authority figures.  She rubs her sleeve across her face again.  She'll be missed at the desk again, soon.  Phyllis'd already asked what was wrong.  Too bloody perceptive, and Annie can't lie to her, not over and over again.  She'd a pair of eyes in her head; she would notice.

Five hours later, after a rush of incoming men bound for the cells (a riot at the grocery store, of all things) she's at the end of her shift and the end of her rope and more than ready to go home.  As she steps through the door and into the bracing evening air, a figure detaches itself from the shadows and joins her.

"Walking you home, Cartwright."

"You don't have to."

"I know.  Good night for a walk, though."

She wants to ask him things; how he can be so thoughtful and so thoughtless all at once.  Where his priorities lie.  Why he isn't home with his wife, or off to the pub.  She keeps schtum.  He chats about his day at work, the joke Chris told that had everyone roaring, how happy he was to put this Johnson fellow away, the merits of single-malt whisky.  It's only when they're on her street and she sees the cigarette tremble in his hand that she realizes he's nervous.

"Would you like to come in for a nightcap?"

He stands there, green eyes burning in the shadows.  After a moment he steps up close to her, so close she can feel the heat of him, has to look up into his eyes.  He nods, slowly, then bends to place a kiss on her lips.

Ten seconds later they're kicking the door closed, wrestling to maintain contact while they tear off jackets and layers.

 

***

On his desk, after hours.  Long after hours, of course, after they've all been to the pub and gone home, but not Annie and Gene. 

"Take me on your desk," she'd whispered in his ear, one day when they were just the two of them in his Cortina.  Even then, in that marginally private locale she'd felt the need to whisper.  And she couldn't say what she really meant, couldn't say, "I want you sticking your cock in me while I'm flat on my back on your paperwork.  I want you to own me, there, in the place where you work and smoke and drink every day.  I want you thinking about my cunt when you're reading the day's reports."

No.  She'd never say those words.  She barely thinks them to herself, but--she's more honest with herself, in the peace of her own mind, than she is with most men.  Yes, she likes sex.  And she likes Gene Hunt, likes sex with him, wants more of it, wishes she could have more of him.  She daydreams of walking down the aisle with him, of being carried across a threshold, of Gene lifting up acres of the white tulle of her wedding dress in order to spread her legs apart and push himself inside her, his cheeks going red, eyes half closed as he ruts into her, whispering words, "Annie, my love, Annie, I want you so much..."

The reality is... what is it?  It's all the things she's barely willing to say to herself, and none of the romance.  It's fumbling in the dark, when he walks her home, or fast, furtive fucks in the Collator's Den.  It's the smell of him, whisky and smoke and the sweat of long days in the office, and the sound of him, grunts and moans and "Oh, fuck, Cartwright, yes," and the feel of his cock in her mouth.  It's the feeling that she has this female power that she never imagined before, that sex could never be so all-encompassing, so important.  She feels sorry for his wife, but then she remembers that Gene still goes home to her every night. 

So, on his desk.  The only light comes from a desk lamp left on out in CID.  They're kissing and rubbing against each other, she's half sitting on the edge of the desk and it would be awkward and painful if she wasn't so tremendously aroused.

"Knew when I first saw you," he gasps, unbuttoning her blouse with shaking fingers.  "Knew I had to have you."

It's the sort of thing he says once in a while.  She shrugs it off.  It's not the same as "We were meant to be together" or "Marry me, Annie, make me the happiest man in the world" or "I love you, and I will leave my wife for you".  She's smarter than that, to expect those sorts of things out of him.  Still, it does make her feel good.  It makes her want him so much that she's throbbing, that she helps him with the clasp of her bra just so she can feel his calluses against the skin of her breast, so much that she cries out unexpectedly when he thrusts against her pubic bone.

"Shhh," he cautions, but he bends his head to her nipple, licks her belly down to the waist of her skirt, and then rucks her skirt up to her hips so he can fumble with her underthings until he rips something with a muffled curse and finally, god, finally presses his hot tongue against her.  It's so unspeakably dirty that she comes almost at once, eyes rolling back in her head in a way that she had always thought was hyperbole, but no, she's staring straight up into the recesses of the ceiling as her body writhes against him.

She's still half lost in it as he pushes his cock against her, into her.  He's big and it hurts a little every time, until her body accepts him.  "Oh," she gasps, and she can feel him trying to wait for her, trying to hold back.

"Oh god, Annie," he moans.  "So tight--Christ, you're tight.  All right?"

She nods, and he rocks into her, pushes in, takes her, is huge above her, and this is everything she ever hoped sex would be, but dirtier and more real, with the hard surface of the desk against her tailbone and the cold metal of his belt buckle burning against her thigh.

"Oh--oh god," she gasps.  "More.  More, Gene."

He gives it to her.  Hard, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin and his grunts of effort, and she bites back her moans.  It's good, it's so good, it--"Christ!" he chokes, and he's shaking against her and she's clenching around him and coming and it's so good, she doesn't want it to ever end, she wouldn't trade anything for this...

***

"You would have made a smashing criminal," Annie says to Gene.

 He snorts out a plume of smoke, not turning to look at her, but then fumbles to pat her on the hip.  "Aren't you charming."

"I mean it.  Look at you.  Imposing figure.  Menacing.  You'd have 'em all eating out of your hand.  Criminal mastermind."  She didn't mean it as a compliment when it first popped into her head, but she couldn't help it in the post-coital bliss.  Yeah, and he'd take it that way, too.  She reaches over to her bedside table to snag an ashtray and plops it in the middle of his chest.  In part it's his disregard for such social niceties that gave her the idea, but then it's also something about the way he embodies the law that makes her think he'd do just as well on the other team, so to speak.  He uses the rules to suit his own purposes.

"So you think I'd be the big dog, eh?"

"I think you'd be the criminal equivalent of the sheriff.  The anti-sheriff?"

"Ta very much."

"I mean, you'd have them all looking to you.  You've got a commanding presence."  This she meant facetiously, but as soon as it's out of her mouth she realizes how true it is.

She's fortunate, in that many of the things he wants align with the things she wants.  And how does she even know what he wants, when so much of what he says is posturing or playing a role, or sheer bravado?  Because she's a bloody great judge of character, that's why.  She knows why he has sex with women other than his wife (a need for validation, for support, for power) and she knows why he pretends not to care (because he needs to be the strong man, because so much of his self-worth is tied up in being the alpha dog) and she knows why he'll never give her the commitment she dreams of.

Because it's impossible.  But in the meantime she can have this.  She can have him come up behind her as she unlocks the door to her flat, put his mouth to her ear and say, "Close the door and do as I say."  She can have him take her, and violate her, and never feel guilt or shame about wanting it, because they have their mutual acceptance and understanding.  It's his commanding presence that makes her feel like it's physically safe to be vulnerable around him, and it's his gallantry that makes her feel emotionally at ease.

And still, and always, she knows him well enough to realize that there are things she'll never have from him.

***

Sam Tyler enters their world and everything goes balls up.  The first she sees him, she's been called in just because she's a girl and he's a boy and none of the men are going to bloody well evaluate his state of confusion.  It's easy to feel self-assured and in charge when he's so very lost.  He makes her feel strong from the very start, even before he's had a chance to sweet-talk her with ideas of gender equality and value.  He's so broken that she can feel completely put-together.

Sam touches her. Lightning quick fingers against her wrist, her cheek. A gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her ahead of him. It's so different from what she's had from Gene. She's half in love with him already, but eternally infuriated. And of course it's no girlish infatuation; she's not carried away. She's wise enough to question her attraction at every step.

Gene watches the two of them together, makes sarcastic comments to Sam about taking her out to the pictures, or home to his shitty flat. She reckons that Gene's been to that flat more often than she has.

"What are you playing at, Gene?" 

They're in his bed, post-coital, Gene's smoking and she's up on one elbow looking at him.  It would feel comfortable and safe and right if she wasn't so aware of how tenuous their world is.

"Don't know what you're talking about, luv."

"You bloody well do."

"Enlighten me."

She sighs.  "Tyler.  The way you look at him."

"What of it?"

"The way you--you're on the verge of a punch-up, half the time, and the other half you're joined at the hip.  And you only just met him a week ago Wednesday."  She doesn't add, this is the first time we've had sex since he dropped in.  He knows that.  It doesn't help that Sam has her seeing the world in a whole new light, as well, with his unquestioning acceptance of her authority and value.  He is so adorable she wants to squeeze him every time she sees him, the lost puppy-dog look in his eyes, and at the same time the anger and the fight radiating out of him.  A man of great contrasts, is Sam Tyler.

"He's my DI.  I have to put up with his ruddy presence every day."  Gene's face is pinched and pouty.  It's not like him to get defensive.

"All right, then.  But--"

"And we've been busy.  Lots to do.  Bastards to nick and all.  Course I need him with me."

She bites her lip.  There's no point in extending the argument, commenting on how different Gene is with Sam than he ever was with Ray, or with Mick Gallbraith, their former DI.  Gene will do what he wants to do, as will she. 

 

***

"Get those logs finished, Annie, love?" Phyllis asks one November day, and the casual term of endearment takes Annie by surprise.

"Yes, they're all done," she answers with a beaming smile.  She'd found it easy to get along with Phyllis from day one.

"Grand."  Phyllis takes the stack of files, graces Annie with a grin and gestures with a shoulder for Annie to follow.  "Let's get them filed right away.  Soonest done, soonest mended, and all that." 

The two of them retreat to the Collator's Den and spend half an hour in peaceful work before Phyllis sighs and takes a seat.  "I just wanted to let you know, I won't let Hunt have you out of here."

"Let Hunt what?"  Annie almost drops the file she's holding.

Phyllis' earnest expression tells her that it's not some kind of joke.  "I know what's going on, Annie.  I've got a pair of--"

"Eyes in your head.  Yes, I know."

"I've been around the block a few times, as well.  And in a few beds.  So..."

Annie's blushing, but if there was ever someone she would have confessed to, it would have been Phyllis.  "So, you think he would...?"

"He's done it before, love.  Been through a few WPCs, it's an old story around here.  But I had a talk with him.  Said you were too good for that, and too good of a Copper to waste in that manner."

It's hard to believe, except for the ways in which it's so obvious.  Annie's mentally kicking herself, but fortunately she's not the naive thing she was six months ago, and after all life had grown quite complicated.  Or maybe it always had been.  "I appreciate the good word," she says at last, and then puts out a hand to touch Phyllis' shoulder.  "I really do."

Phyllis places her hand over Annie's.  "With the way you and DI Tyler have been mooning over each other I figured it would all work itself out," she confesses.  "But--young love, and all that.  I was worried for you, for a while.  But you're a good egg."

Annie smiles, but there are still questions in her mind and she's not sure if she can share all of them with WPC Dobbs.  "Yeah.  I think it's all OK."  Not so much for Mrs. Hunt, she thinks, and feels the stab of empathy all the way down to the pit of her stomach.  She and Mrs. Hunt may have more in common than they would ever have expected.

 

***

 

Gene's not the type to have words with her.  He says it all in gesture and choices, in the lack of favoritism and the gruff banter.  They no longer run into each other in the corridors, and if she sees him ducking into Lost and Found, she doesn't rush to join him there.  When Sam picks her as the new WDC she almost expects Gene to object, to find a reason, any reason to prevent it, but he watches from the back of the room, nods once in approval and rushes the lot of them off to the pub as if it were any other day.

So the day when she receives her notice, her blood runs cold because it's a shock, a serious shock.  She had come to believe it couldn't happen, that she was valued enough and--honestly, that she had ties enough that it shouldn't happen.

She stares at the piece of paper on her desk and really thinks that she should be able to blink her eyes and make it go away.  It's still there when she opens her eyes, and the empty ache in her stomach churns.  The walk to Gene's office feels strange, as if her feet are five miles away.  He looks up, mouth set in an angry pout, and it makes her so furious that all the words she had intended to say get jammed in her throat and she just leans forward and slaps him as hard as she can.

The tears come about twenty minutes later when she's walking fast and furious down the street, thinking of every thing she might have said to him.

Phyllis knocks on her door around six o'clock, after her shift.  "Oh Annie," she says, without preamble.

"S'all right.  I'll get another job."  Annie doesn't really want to talk about it, but Phyllis invites herself in, and produces a bottle of wine, and about half an hour later a second bottle. 

When the sun comes streaming in her window the next morning, Annie rolls over and presses her aching forehead into the pillow and tries to ignore the persistent knocking.  It doesn't stop, and eventually she drags on a robe and drags herself down to the front door.  "Who is it?" she rasps, hand on the doorknob.

"Me."  It's Sam's voice.

He doesn't look much better than she feels; he's got a terrific shiner and a split lip, and the knuckles of both hands are raw. 

"Did you have a run-in with a lorry?" she quips.

"You've got your job back," he announces with the air of the righteous.

"Sorry, what?"

"You're not fired."

"Who says I want my job back?"

He looks taken aback, vulnerable again, and she has to quash her impulse to squeeze him so very hard.  "But--I know you value it.  You're good at policing, Annie."

"I know I am, too, but who says I want to work for a boorish, over-the-hill, alcoholic, nicotine-stained arsehole with delusions of superiority?" She's breathing harder at the thought of him.

Sam looks like he doesn't know what to say.  "Is there anything I can say to make it better?" he asks with his adorable sad face.

She leans her forehead against the frame of the door.  "God, Sam.  Do you even--can't you understand how--"

"I know what he--"

"No.  No you don't."  She shakes her head.  "I'll see you later."  He accepts that with mournful gaze and she goes back to bed.

 

***

"I want you back."

"No you don't."

Gene's at her door, same as usual in camelhair coat and windblown hair.  She still wants him, physically, but can't imagine taking him by the hand just now.  His peevish, pouty lines are showing around his mouth and she's still so very angry at him.  The swollen nose and rakish bruises on his cheekbones do add a certain something, though.

"Cartwright.  You have to come back or my entire team will mutiny on me."

She rolls her eyes.

"I mean it.  Please come back to CID.  I said please."

"Guv."

"I was wrong, and I'm an arse, and I want you on my team."  He's saying all these things as if he's reading from a cue card, but he really is giving her the very thing that she most wants from him, and it's oh so hard to say no.  Still, what kind of world will CID be, with all this behind them?  What kind of boss can she see him as?  Should she go back to policing, even though she delights in the prospect of detective work, the challenge of it and the ways it's pushed her to grow as a person?  And she likes the people, she likes Sam. 

"Maybe," she says after a long pause, arms crossed.  He doesn't look any happier, but there's a hint of relief in his expression.

"Good.  Monday?  You can--err, think about it over the weekend?"

She smiles, looks down at his ridiculous loafers.  Who wears white shoes like that?  Only Hunt.  The terror of Manchester.  "Yeah.  I'll see you on Monday."  
  



End file.
